Declined to fight the fellow? interposed Algernon. More shame to you!
I think youre a year younger than I am, Algy. You have the privilege of speaking with that years simplicity. Mrs. Lovell will play you as she played me. I acknowledge her power, and I keep out of her way. I dont bet; I dont care to waltz; I cant keep horses; so I dont lose much by the privation to which I subject myself.
I bet, I waltz, and I ride. So, said Algernon, I should lose tremendously.
You will lose, mark my words.
Is the lecture of my years senior concluded? said Algernon.
Yes; Ive done, Edward answered.
Then Ill put on my coat, Ned, and Ill smoke in it. Thatll give you assurance Im not going near Mrs. Lovell, if anything will.
That gives me assurance that Mrs. Lovell tolerates in you what she detests, said Edward, relentless in his insight; and, consequently, gives me assurance that she finds you of particular service to her at present.
Algernon had a lighted match in his hand. He flung it into the fire. Im hanged if I dont think you have the confounded vanity to suppose she sets me as a spy upon you!
A smile ran along Edwards lips. I dont think youd know it, if she did.
Oh, youre ten years older; youre twenty, bawled Algernon, in an extremity of disgust. Dont I know what game youre following up? Isnt it clear as day youve got another woman in your eye?
Its as clear as day, my good Algy, that you see a portrait hanging in my chambers, and you have heard Mrs. Lovells opinion of the fact. So much is perfectly clear. Theres my hand. I dont blame you. Shes a clever woman, and like many of the sort, shrewd at guessing the worst. Come, take my hand. I tell you, I dont blame you. Ive been little dog to her myself, and fetched and carried, and wagged my tail. Its charming while it lasts. Will you shake it?
Your tail, man? Algernon roared in pretended amazement.
Edward eased him back to friendliness by laughing. No; my hand.
They shook hands.
All right, said Algernon. You mean well. Its very well for you to preach virtue to a poor devil; youve got loose, or youre regularly in love.
Virtue! by heaven! Edward cried; I wish I were entitled to preach it to any man on earth.
His face flushed. There, good-bye, old fellow, he added.
Go to the city. Ill dine with you to-night, if you like; come and dine with me at my Club. I shall be disengaged.
Algernon mumbled a flexible assent to an appointment at Edwards Club, dressed himself with care, borrowed a sovereign, for which he nodded his acceptance, and left him.
Edward set his brain upon a book of law.
It may have been two hours after he had sat thus in his Cistercian stillness, when a letter was delivered to him by one of the Inn porters. Edward read the superscription, and asked the porter who it was that brought it. Two young ladies, the porter said.
These were the contents:
I am not sure that you will ever forgive me. I cannot forgive myself when I think of that one word I was obliged to speak to you in the cold street, and nothing to explain why, and how much I love, you. Oh! how I love you! I cry while I write. I cannot help it. I was a sop of tears all night long, and oh! if you had seen my face in the morning. I am thankful you did not. Mothers Bible brought me home. It must have been guidance, for in my bed there lay my sister, and I could not leave her, I love her so. I could not have got down stairs again after seeing her there; and I had to say that cold word and shut the window on you. May I call you Edward still? Oh, dear Edward, do make allowance for me. Write kindly to me. Say you forgive me. I feel like a ghost to-day. My life seems quite behind me somewhere, and I hardly feel anything I touch. I declare to you, dearest one, I had no idea my sister was here. I was surprised when I heard her name mentioned by my landlady, and looked on the bed; suddenly my strength was gone, and it changed all that I was thinking. I never knew before that women were so weak, but now I see they are, and I only know I am at my Edwards mercy, and am stupid! Oh, so wretched and stupid. I shall not touch food till I hear from you. Oh, if, you are angry, write so; but do write. My suspense would make you pity me. I know I deserve your anger. It was not that I do not trust you, Edward. My mother in heaven sees my heart and that I trust, I trust my heart and everything I am and have to you. I would almost wish and wait to see you to-day in the Gardens, but my crying has made me such a streaked thing to look at. If I had rubbed my face with a scrubbing-brush, I could not look worse, and I cannot risk your seeing me. It would excuse you for hating me. Do you? Does he hate her? She loves you. She would die for you, dear Edward. Oh! I feel that if I was told to-day that I should die for you to-morrow, it would be happiness. I am dyingyes, I am dying till I hear from you.
Believe me,
Your tender, loving, broken-hearted,
Dahlia.
There was a postscript:
May I still go to lessons?
Edward finished the letter with a calmly perusing eye. He had winced triflingly at one or two expressions contained in it; forcible, perhaps, but not such as Mrs. Lovell smiling from the wall yonder would have used.
The poor child threatens to eat no dinner, if I dont write to her, he said; and replied in a kind and magnanimous spirit, concludingGo to lessons, by all means.
Having accomplished this, he stood up, and by hazard fell to comparing the rival portraits; a melancholy and a comic thing to do, as you will find if you put two painted heads side by side, and set their merits contesting, and reflect on the contest, and to what advantages, personal, or of the artists, the winner owes the victory. Dahlia had been admirably dealt with by the artist; the charm of pure ingenuousness without rusticity was visible in her face and figure. Hanging there on the wall, she was a match for Mrs. Lovell.
CHAPTER VII
Rhoda returned home the heavier for a secret that she bore with her. All through the first night of her sleeping in London, Dahlias sobs, and tender hugs, and self-reproaches, had penetrated her dreams, and when the morning came she had scarcely to learn that Dahlia loved some one. The confession was made; but his name was reserved. Dahlia spoke of him with such sacredness of respect that she seemed lost in him, and like a creature kissing his feet. With tears rolling down her cheeks, and with moans of anguish, she spoke of the deliciousness of loving: of knowing one to whom she abandoned her will and her destiny, until, seeing how beautiful a bloom love threw upon the tearful worn face of her sister, Rhoda was impressed by a mystical veneration for this man, and readily believed him to be above all other men, if not superhuman: for she was of an age and an imagination to conceive a spiritual pre-eminence over the weakness of mortality. She thought that one who could so transform her sister, touch her with awe, and give her gracefulness and humility, must be what Dahlia said he was. She asked shyly for his Christian name; but even so little Dahlia withheld. It was his wish that Dahlia should keep silence concerning him.
Have you sworn an oath? said Rhoda, wonderingly.
No, dear love, Dahlia replied; he only mentioned what he desired.
Rhoda was ashamed of herself for thinking it strange, and she surrendered her judgement to be stamped by the one who knew him well.
No, dear love, Dahlia replied; he only mentioned what he desired.
Rhoda was ashamed of herself for thinking it strange, and she surrendered her judgement to be stamped by the one who knew him well.
As regarded her uncle, Dahlia admitted that she had behaved forgetfully and unkindly, and promised amendment. She talked of the Farm as of an old ruin, with nothing but a thin shade of memory threading its walls, and appeared to marvel vaguely that it stood yet. Father shall not always want money, she said. She was particular in prescribing books for Rhoda to read; good authors, she emphasized, and named books of history, and poets, and quoted their verses. For my darling will some day have a dear husband, and he must not look down on her. Rhoda shook her head, full sure that she could never be brought to utter such musical words naturally. Yes, dearest, when you know what love is, said Dahlia, in an underbreath.
Could Robert inspire her with the power? Rhoda looked upon that poor homely young man half-curiously when she returned, and quite dismissed the notion. Besides she had no feeling for herself. Her passion was fixed upon her sister, whose record of emotions in the letters from London placed her beyond dull days and nights. The letters struck many chords. A less subservient reader would have set them down as variations of the language of infatuation; but Rhoda was responsive to every word and change of mood, from the, I am unworthy, degraded, wretched, to I am blest above the angels. If one letter said, We met yesterday, Rhodas heart beat on to the question, Shall I see him again to-morrow? And will she see him?has she seen him?agitated her and absorbed her thoughts.
So humbly did she follow her sister, without daring to forecast a prospect for her, or dream of an issue, that when on a summer morning a letter was brought in at the breakfast-table, marked urgent and private, she opened it, and the first line dazzled her eyesthe surprise was a shock to her brain. She rose from her unfinished meal, and walked out into the wide air, feeling as if she walked on thunder.
The letter ran thus:
My Own Innocent!I am married. We leave England to-day. I must not love you too much, for I have all my love to give to my Edward, my own now, and I am his trustingly for ever. But he will let me give you some of itand Rhoda is never jealous. She shall have a great deal. Only I am frightened when I think how immense my love is for him, so that anythingeverything he thinks right is right to me. I am not afraid to think so. If I were to try, a cloud would come over meit does, if only I fancy for half a moment I am rash, and a straw. I cannot exist except through him. So I must belong to him, and his will is my law. My prayer at my bedside every night is that I may die for him. We used to think the idea of death so terrible! Do you remember how we used to shudder together at night when we thought of people lying in the grave? And now, when I think that perhaps I may some day die for him, I feel like a crying in my heart with joy.
I have left a lettersent it, I meanenclosed to uncle for father. He will see Edward by-and-by. Oh! may heaven spare him from any grief. Rhoda will comfort him. Tell him how devoted I am. I am like drowned to everybody but one.
We are looking on the sea. In half an hour I shall have forgotten the tread of English earth. I do not know that I breathe. All I know is a fear that I am flying, and my strength will not continue. That is when I am not touching his hand. There is France opposite. I shut my eyes and see the whole country, but it is like what I feel for Edwardall in dark moonlight. Oh! I trust him so! I bleed for him. I could make all my veins bleed out at a sad thought about him. And from France to Switzerland and Italy. The sea sparkles just as if it said Come to the sun; and I am going. Edward calls. Shall I be punished for so much happiness? I am too happy, I am too happy.
God bless my beloved at home! That is my chief prayer now. I shall think of her when I am in the cathedrals.
Oh, my Father in heaven! bless them all! bless Rhoda! forgive me!
I can hear the steam of the steamer at the pier. Here is Edward. He says I may send his love to you.
Address:
Mrs. Edward Ayrton,
Poste Restante,
Lausanne,
Switzerland.
P.S.Lausanne is wherebut another time, and I will always tell you the history of the places to instruct you, poor heart in dull England. Adieu! Good-bye and God bless my innocent at home, my dear sister. I love her. I never can forget her. The day is so lovely. It seems on purpose for us. Be sure you write on thin paper to Lausanne. It is on a blue lake; you see snow mountains, and now there is a bell ringingkisses from me! we start. I must sign.
Dahlia.
By the reading of this letter, Rhoda was caught vividly to the shore, and saw her sister borne away in the boat to the strange countries; she travelled with her, following her with gliding speed through a multiplicity of shifting scenes, opal landscapes, full of fire and dreams, and in all of them a great bell towered. Oh, my sweet! my own beauty! she cried in Dahlias language. Meeting Mrs. Sumfit, she called her Mother Dumpling, as Dahlia did of old, affectionately, and kissed her, and ran on to Master Gammon, who was tramping leisurely on to the oatfield lying on toward the millholms.
My sister sends you her love, she said brightly to the old man. Master Gammon responded with no remarkable flash of his eyes, and merely opened his mouth and shut it, as when a duck divides its bill, but fails to emit the customary quack.
And to you, little pigs; and to you, Mulberry; and you, Dapple; and you, and you, and you.
Rhoda nodded round to all the citizens of the farmyard; and so eased her heart of its laughing bubbles. After which, she fell to a meditative walk of demurer joy, and had a regret. It was simply that Dahlias hurry in signing the letter, had robbed her of the delight of seeing Dahlia Ayrton written proudly out, with its wonderful signification of the change in her life.
That was a trifling matter; yet Rhoda felt the letter was not complete in the absence of the bridal name. She fancied Dahlia to have meant, perhaps, that she was Dahlia to her as of old, and not a stranger. Dahlia ever; Dahlia nothing else for you, she heard her sister say. But how delicious and mournful, how terrible and sweet with meaning would Dahlia Ayrton, the new name in the dear handwriting, have looked! And I have a brother-in-law, she thought, and her cheeks tingled. The banks of fern and foxglove, and the green young oaks fringing the copse, grew rich in colour, as she reflected that this beloved unknown husband of her sister embraced her and her father as well; even the old bent beggarman on the sandy ridge, though he had a starved frame and carried pitiless faggots, stood illumined in a soft warmth. Rhoda could not go back to the house.
It chanced that the farmer that morning had been smitten with the virtue of his wifes opinion of Robert, and her parting recommendation concerning him.
Have you a mind to either one of my two girls? he put the question bluntly, finding himself alone with Robert.
Robert took a quick breath, and replied, I have.
Then make your choice, said the farmer, and tried to go about his business, but hung near Robert in the fields till he had asked: Which one is it, my boy?
Robert turned a blade of wheat in his mouth.
I think I shall leave her to tell that, was his answer.
Why, dont ye know which one you prefer to choose, man? quoth Mr. Fleming.